December has always carried a strange duality: it feels both like the epilogue of the year that’s ending and the prologue of the one yet to come. The transition is never abrupt; it flows instead in a subtle, almost imperceptible circle. This is particularly interesting in Lebanon, where the Aramaic month names still used nowadays act as a reminder of this continuity: December is كانون الأول, January is كانون الثاني. The use of these ancient terms alongside the Gregorian system only emphasizes the fact that the cut between years exists in calendars and celebrations, not in lived reality. In our everyday life, the shift is a quiet handoff from one chapter to the next, a gentle reminder that time, like life here, rarely pauses.

This continuity mirrors the Lebanese talent for living in two realities at once, a paradox that defines the rhythm of life here. On one hand, there is the familiar vibrancy: malls filled with shoppers and kids hanging out during the school break, cafés in Hamra bustling with students cramming for finals, downtown streets packed with brand-new luxury cars, clubs drawing long lines at night, Badaro bars buzzing with late-night meetups, restaurants overflowing as waiters rush to keep up, roads permanently streaming with delivery drivers who never seem to rest, homes alive with families preparing sumptuous meals and gatherings… We, Lebanese people, are known for our love of life and enjoyment no matter what, a culture of joy and hospitality that seems almost instinctive. Yet, on the other hand, these outward displays coexist with a quieter, often invisible tension. Our country, and the state of life it provides, does not always reflect this vitality. Ever since the civil war, there has always been something weighing down on generation after generation…

There is so much life in Lebanon that if you get caught up in the positives, it is so easy to (temporarily) forget what the negatives are, especially now that the holidays have arrived. It is easier to cover the dreadful hum of the MK that has been flying above our heads for far too long now with the cheerful sounds of Christmas music. In a way, that contrast captures our reality perfectly: joy on the surface, carefully hiding the turmoil behind it... 

However, in recent years, even the holiday joy has carried a shadow. There is a subtle undercurrent of sadness in every celebration as we remember those lost in the war, the victims of the Beirut port explosion, families who cannot afford gifts for their children because of the economic crisis, elderly relatives living alone after their children left the country, and countless others navigating hardships too familiar to list. It is a paradoxical existence: smiles, laughter, music, and warmth on the surface, yet a shared collective awareness of fragility and loss underneath. The Lebanese have learned to hold both realities at once, weaving joy and grief into the same daily tapestry, as if to assert life’s persistence despite it all.

It’s a strange rhythm we’ve grown used to, we not only adapt like we did to the water and electricity shortages, but we move through contradictions almost too instinctively now: we reply to holiday greetings as we receive news of bombing threats and evacuation orders, and we pause for a heartbeat during fireworks, unsure for a second whether the sound is celebrational or something far heavier, then enjoy them like nothing happened….

Perhaps this is why December in Lebanon can feel simultaneously comforting and unsettling. The new year approaches with its unknowns: economic pressures, political unpredictability, and the subtle anxieties that accompany living in a country in flux. And yet, life continues. People still dress up their kids for Barbara, show up to family dinners, organize study sessions, play Secret Santa with their friends, warmly welcome the visiting diaspora, and carve out moments of spontaneity between deadlines and obligations. It is not careless living; it is a quiet determination to create meaning and joy where possible, to maintain traditions and connection even in uncertainty, and to carry on in the best way we can.

To summarize, Lebanon, as a whole, is a burnt-out nation of joie de vivre. The exhaustion is real, but so is the celebration, the laughter, and the stubborn vitality that refuses to be entirely tamed by circumstances. December, with its lights, deadlines, exams, and festivities, embodies this paradox perfectly: a time when people exist fully in the tension between endings and beginnings, between fatigue and delight, between uncertainty and hope. And perhaps this is precisely what gives the Lebanese their particular rhythm: a continuous circle of living, feeling, and adapting, year after year, month after month, Kanoun after Kanoun.